


The Adventures of Steven and the Lady Journalist During the Blood Space War

by Dangersocks



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Blood Space War, Gen, M/M, Pre-Episode: e025 One Year Later, Subversive Radio Host
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 10:52:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangersocks/pseuds/Dangersocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Blood Space War comes to Night Vale and Cecil's dreams may come true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventures of Steven and the Lady Journalist During the Blood Space War

_A line-up._

 

Up.

 

_People gathered, waiting._

 

A hush.

 

_Eyes cast…_

 

...upwards. Or, to the ground in case the denial could be powerful enough. Oh listeners, had that been the case we would have won this war long ago. No one denies the end better than the citizens of our dear town, Night Vale. But I fear there may not be much of a town left…

 

-

 

Cecil leaves his eyes on the heavens. He no longer admits to calling them the heavens. He needs a miracle now and in the last few days he suspects that his secret stash of karma has become gravely overdrawn.

 

Above, the dusk should be pulling away the layers of the sky, dragging them to unseen corners and leaving only night. But the sun is setting far too slowly. Cecil waits for shadows but they are taking a long time to come and this frustrates him.

 

He crouches in the corner of a large, boxy air conditioner unit that used to run on the roof of Big Rico’s. He crouches and gazes skywards, willing the colour to transform. There are no more notices being passed across his desk outlying the weekly shades. Nobody delivers the news to Cecil anymore.

 

“But I create it,” he whispers, barely a breath. Barely a vibration of his vocal chords. To speak is too dangerous. To talk, even to himself -- a particular waste if just to himself -- and they will know. They will hear, and find him.

 

They will come.

 

The end.

 

And as if on cue, the baby blue atmosphere displays a single twinkling silver star. It is not an offering of dusk, nor even a planet. It is not truly a star. Cecil knows the difference.

 

The Blood Space War has come to Earth. It has come to Night Vale, bent on punishing those who would support the losing side. Alas, concedes the radio host, the odds of choosing the wrong side in a distant intergalactic war is a fifty-fifty split. The chance of having one’s enemy decide that the time and the effort to cross star systems to subjugate the poor fools for a petty offering of $2,673.92 to the cause, well…

 

“Here we are,” mouths the crouched man longing for shadows.

 

The invaders had wanted the mayor, first. And she had been quick to disappear into the Dog Park which is still impressively impenetrable to the technologically advanced super-power hanging high above the town. Unfortunately, the Dog Park is not much of an option for shelter for anyone not associated with City Council. And with the alien’s initial target out of their reach, a new hostage had been required.

 

An example would be made so as to teach the human race not to meddle in the affairs of intergalactic space monsters with shiny ships and impressive ray and laser guns. And maybe Cecil should have put his reporting integrity aside when he had advertised the fundraisers and perhaps he could have even been a little less prominent in the community. The infamous “Voice” of the city, well, it should be kind of an honour to be considered a secondary prize after the mayor. They might even spare the town further destruction if Cecil surrenders. Heck, his charm and words could win humanity back the planet…

 

Cecil considers it. He also remembers that he is a selfish person. And afraid. He recalls that he enjoys the part of life where he is alive and not in unconceivable pain and sufferage. They also have not caught him yet and he sees no reason to just hand himself over.

 

He takes a moment to silently thank the Boy Scouts of America, the work that he had put into earning his Subversive Radio Host badge as a child, as well as the recent sacrifice of Earl Harlan. These are what allow Cecil to have the liberty to grovel and slink about in the remains of his beloved town. He is like a rat, afraid of daylight and fiery death.

 

Cecil turns his eyes away from the glittering dots slowly appearing like constellations. He gazes instead towards the television antenna on what used to be Telly’s house. It still shines silver and defiant above singed shingles. It is just across the street and up a block but the route and the roof itself provides very little in the way of cover. Nightfall will be essential and even then, the moment his equipment hooks up to transmit the pre-made recording, his voice will bring the entirety of a space army’s wrath down upon him.

 

Telly could lose his house, though the man -- if alive -- is an awful excuse for a barber. The entire block may be obliterated but remaining citizens should be hiding under the bowling alley by now. And Cecil has reacquired his knack for running.

 

He just needs to parkour off of the roof once the broadcast begins. Parkour cannot be too difficult to figure out on the fly, and the Flynn’s treehouse is ready to stutter his descent. Then it is a rope swing onto the trampoline to get over the electrical fence that separates the sandlot from the yards of children and this will prove to the otherworldly observers -- who will hopefully be on him by this point -- that Cecil can scale such obstacles. Some pre-planned traffic, a bit of a distraction when an offsale firework hut explodes and then Cecil will last be seen sprinting towards the gates of the forbidden Dog Park. In reality, the Glow Cloud will interfere with anyone watching from the sky too closely. The Mighty and All-Powerful had only agreed to offering forty seconds of disruption in exchange for things Cecil cannot remember giving, but that window will be essential for allowing the radio host to slip away into the White Sands Ice Cream Shop, his current secret base.

 

The aliens will believe he is dead or beyond their reach in the Dog Park and Cecil will be free for one more day of planning and rebelling. The chase will also be a grand distraction so that the broadcast may continue. Should it successfully run for five minutes, the Sheriff will have access to all of the information that the late Earl and his Scouts had helped Cecil and his surviving interns gather.

 

Cecil’s resistance hinges on all of the help he has received. He’s had to pull all of his resources together, rescuing a short list of unused resumes and prophesied employees from the broken and radioactive crater that had once been Night Vale’s community radio station. The new girl, Dana, shows a lot of potential. Stacy and Chad had infiltrated one of the ships, though their regular check-ins have stopped as of this morning.

 

Fighting or not, all of Night Vale’s citizens are counting on Cecil to deliver the news. They are counting on him to survive another night and to guide his listeners through yet another crisis.

 

Because that is what this is, Cecil compounds for himself: A crisis. One of many. And for a reporter who has lived through several Street Cleaning Days and to have successfully negotiated a raise in pay from station management just last year, this is a mere parody of a real apocalypse.

 

Cecil reassures himself of this. He tells himself he believes it. He gauges the cerulean sky and the sun is still too bright.

 

“I told you that the sun wasn’t setting at the right time.”

 

The voice at his shoulder causes Cecil’s heart to leap into his throat. This is only partially due to the unexpectedness of the company in this highly-charged warzone. Mostly, it is the familiarness of the voice and days of him being in shock that immediately unhinges all of Cecil’s helpless habits in reply. He spins on his heel, awkward and suddenly all knees bumping chin, to squeak: “Carlo--”

 

A hand, filthily bandaged, clamps over Cecil’s mouth and perfect eyes snap wide in horror, which Cecil knows he mimics. The aliens are listening, always, for a particular vocal signature. It just so happens to belong to Night Vale’s radio host, dumb enough to clandestinely shout on a rooftop. Together, the hunched men glance up at where the Void used to be. No pinpoints of red start sparkling. No rubble and small stones start to hover around them, signifying an imminent burst of space lasers and gravity traps.  

 

Guns don’t kill people, but ray and laser guns kill a _lot_ of people. Quickly. Unexpectedly. Indiscriminately.

 

Silence hangs over Night Vale and the men tense waiting for something to notice them. They wait longer than they need to, together.

 

When they finally accept safety and heave a collective sigh, Carlos drops his hand from Cecil’s lips and gives the horizon a squint. Cecil lays all eyes on the scientist, not sure of how he feels about this miracle. The other man’s labcoat is stained and tattered. It wears a layer of dirt, dried blood and concrete dust. Grime clings to the scientist’s face and coats his uneven stubble. There are lines growing deep under Carlos’ eyes but the teeth flash white when Carlos eventually returns the attention.

 

“Best you let me talk and I promise to keep it brief. I spoke with Vithya and she told me your plan. If you could pull it off, well...that would be, that would be incredible. It’s a good plan and we need you. More than ever.”

 

Cecil’s eyes are wide and his mouth is dry. He may have stopped breathing.

 

Carlos flicks a tongue out, not quite catching the radio host’s eye when he mouths, “I need you.”

 

Perhaps giving volume to the thought is too risky for Carlos. Or else it is in fear of being overheard and accidentally giving away the presence of the prize the invaders seek. If the aliens have Chad and Stacy, they may also learn that Cecil has one weakness...

 

Cecil swallows and nods. And despite his skill with communication, he feels inadequate to properly communicate that he feels the same way too. He settles for vibrating. The balls of his feet bob and his kit bounces at his hip. They are sharing the shadow of the air conditioning unit. They are very close and painfully exposed from many angles if viewed from the air. Keeping still is important.

 

Perhaps it is for this reason that Carlos places a hand on Cecil’s knee, steadying him. But Cecil cannot stop his longing that the contact is for another reason altogether.

 

Cecil represses the urge to squirm and lets himself go unnaturally still.

 

“Can you do it?” Carlos asks. His attention is intense.

 

Cecil indicates an affirmative, slowly and deliberately. A moment ago, the reporter had not been so certain of himself. Now, he could single-handedly end this war and start many others if the scientist -- this perfect person with unruly, sexy apocalypse hair -- is now finally speaking to Cecil. Even acknowledging Cecil.

 

If only he could speak right now...

 

“You don’t have to do it alone,” offers Carlos as he leans closer. He smells like sweat, Old Spice and some kind of chemical bleach.

 

“What do you mean?” Cecil mouths, hopeful.

 

Carlos hesitates before he shifts away. The increased distance is only a few inches but painful to Cecil nonetheless. Carlos speaks quietly. “I will make the sun set. I’ve figured out how to do that in the days before the attack. This will give you the cover you need and while you hook up the antenna for your broadcast, I will keep the ships busy.”

 

“How?” Cecil keens, breathlessly. “You would die…”

 

Cecil wants to say more. He longs to test his volume in expressing his belief that Carlos had gotten away. That his joy at the return, the aid, and the promise for what could come after survival is countered by the realization that he could lose this man just as quickly. As clinically and brutally...

 

And Carlos smiles, first with his eyes. His brows knit in sympathy and his lips quirk shyly. He looks so modest and so smart. Subdued, yet sincere.

 

“Oh, Cecil,” Carlos does not say aloud because that name is too dangerous to say. “I am a scientist. I will use science to elude them, just as you run. And we will meet afterwards. We’ll work on the future together. I thought I’d lost you a dozen times since they’ve arrived, and I can’t hide and wait any longer.”

 

Cecil slips his lower lip into his teeth, thinking about how, while he has spent the last week clawing and scrapping together some kind of resistance, Carlos has been waiting on him. And doing the same.

 

He takes a knee, shifting because his legs are so weak. He draws closer to the scientist and murmurs with great fear and a lot of mustered confidence, “will you kiss me if this is goodbye?”

 

And a slight flush ignites Carlos’ features, illuminated in the sun that refuses to move without Carlos’ command. His teeth clamp behind a chiseled jaw and Carlos meekly replies, “this is just a good night, Night Vale. And hardly a good bye.”

 

A button clicks on a remote, hidden in the palm of the scientist. And the sun starts to set, pitching itself downwards with dizzying speed -- shadows whirling, silently stretching and fading in a way that would boggle Cecil’s mind had his mind been focused on these things-- then black. And in the darkness, maybe they kiss. A brush of lips, softly set in battle worn faces and held in calloused fingers so gently. An unworded promise.

 

And they part, two human shapes on a roof. The sky above them has grown into a universe of pinpricks, flicking around in the confusion at the sun’s odd behaviour. Baubles skirting and shining in a blanket of forever. One hundred thousand lights illuminating, dangerous and beautiful. Oh, if only Carlos and Cecil could profess their feelings to one another under such marvels in a better time and place…

 

Cecil knows he looks dashing and important, poised on the edge of Big Rico’s with his radio gear slung over his hip and a distant fire igniting his profile. He steals a look back, drunk on destiny and adventure. His Carlos stands with the moon glowing behind him, rising and full. Perfect. His coat flutters and in that moment, Carlos calls to him: “Did you find what you were looking for?”

 

The question is not in an oaky serenade. It is female with words choking on years of smoking.

 

“Par…” Cecil starts, stuck when he remembers that he should not be raising his tone.

 

“Did you find what you were looking for, Mr. Palmer? Or did you, like all of our shoppers today, find that you lack the thing you need but you denied this in yet another attempt at getting through the day with but a modecum of percieved completeness and happiness? You’ll find it someday, you’ll say. And it will be worth the wait, you’ll say. But tonight, you are alone, in a line-up. Like all of the singular individuals behind you. I will ask you again, did you find what you were looking for?”

 

In the middle of the monologue, the night begins to melt like acid on a dissolving strip of film revealing a fourth wall -- a white world where, for a moment, Cecil fears that he and Carlos have been found. Caught by the heavens who have heard their confessions of love and plots of resilience. Then, the Erika at Cecil’s shoulder pushes and the brightness goes from blinding oblivion to just strings of simple artificial halogen bulbs. The roar of imminent death by lasers is replaced by the beeping, red flickering of a barcode scanner. The line-up…

 

 _Up_.

 

People gathered, waiting.

 

_Impatient, like --_

 

The check-out girl raises a pencil thin eyebrow and the agitated Erika prods Cecil again.

 

“I...oh, sorry,” the host stutters. He is holding a basket in lieu of radio hijacking equipment. There is cat food for the new addition at the station, and a paperback science fiction romance from the magazine aisle. It features a scientist and a reporter, but sadly the scientist is named Steven and the reporter is a lady. Pronouns are simple enough to change but…

 

“I found something close to what I was looking for,” he finally explains.

 

“Oh,” hums the clerk with her deep, smoky voice. “Look at you. Ahead of the curve.”

 

Ahead of the curve, Cecil thinks with sarcasm as he steps outside. The sky is clear with no aliens. No rising smoke grows from Night Vale. Across the street is a group of scientists. They wear clean white coats and they talk to each other, free from a scheduled workday (if science follows a scheduled workday.) Cecil watches them longingly, blocking the entrance and further inconveniencing the Erika.

 

Erikas are easy to ignore, though.

 

Carlos is not with those scientists. Carlos is probably working. Or sleeping, maybe with a book. Do scientists daydream or is their life full of numbers and charts and graphs?

 

Cecil stares up to the heavens and wonders if he could be so lucky as to summon an invasion. Will he want to continue with this thought when he gets home: dirty and fending off an attack with his scientist at his side. They would huddle in the ruins of this town. They would work late into the night and get hurt for one another. They would win and last forever, or die, valiant and loudly, invoking genocide on an entire outside race with their sacrifice.

 

There are no books or movies for people like him. Cecil has no stories where a reporter and a scientist find one another save for the potential of his own life: a work in progress. Not nearly as dramatic. Cecil’s life is boring in comparison and why would a scientist want to be with a boring guy like Cecil?

 

There is a floating cat who is becoming incorrigible in its hunger. Station management had made it clear that losing another intern over the pet is getting close to unacceptable. Cecil hefts the bag with the cat food and decides to turn his thoughts to more realistic concerns. He can read an awful book in the hours before his show. He can daydream what he likes after he feeds Khoshekh.

 

He can be a hero. He can be a boyfriend. But right now, he is simply Cecil -- a radio host in a small town called Night Vale.

  
  
  


So he goes to work.

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies for the poor title. I did fix the summary (fun fact: you should keep it simple, stupid). I still hope you come to long for more Blood Space War stories. The point that I never got to make with this fic is that if you can't find the stories you want to hear, you have to make them yourself.


End file.
